Lucy looked down at the metal floor and stuffed her hands in her pockets.

“I’m afraid he died.”

Chloe touched her arm.

“My God,” said Kent. “When? What happened?”

Both scientists looked stunned. Kent recovered first. “I’m sorry, Lucy—you don’t have to tell me, of course…. I’m just so … we are just so shocked….”

She looked up again. “That’s OK. It was a few months ago. Radiation poisoning.” Itch could tell that she was doing her best to sound matter-of-fact.

“Radiation?” said Kent, flabbergasted. The ensuing silence suggested the scientists expected more detail, but none was forthcoming. Lucy was just staring into the distance and biting her lip.

“I am so sorry,” said Oakes. “Please accept our condolences.”

Lucy nodded, and there was silence for a few moments before Kent spoke again, smiling kindly.

“Let’s see if we can rustle up some tea,” he said, and opened the door.

In the windowless control room, Lucy was introduced to the technicians and scientists; it seemed that many of them remembered her father. Itch looked around at the array of monitors that formed the control room. Three men and a woman were glued to computer screens; the rest were listening to Lucy.

Tom Oakes stepped away from the reminiscing and stood at Itch’s shoulder.

“Basically we control everything from here,” he said. “We fire the beam, we shut it down. We open the building, we shut it down. We monitor all the experiments in all the other target stations; we are number four—of four. We hire out the equipment to whoever wants it, as long as they fulfill our strict research conditions and make their results public. Targets one and two are running at the moment, three and four are waiting for new projects to arrive.”

“So there’s nothing you’re working on at the moment?” asked Itch.

“No, just maintenance today—some of the tube’s panels are being inspected tomorrow—so we have a reduced staff. We expect new work next week.” The American walked past another operator. “Jenny, this is Itch. He’s with Lucy. Just showing him around.”

The woman called Jenny barely looked up from her screen but nodded in Itch’s direction.

“Where is the beam controlled from?” asked Itch. “Is there a beam controller?”

“Yes, that’s Jenny.” Oakes pointed to the BEAM ON/BEAM OFF light above her panel and the key by her left hand. “She turns the key, the beam is on. There’s a built-in pause of up of two minutes before the beam hits, then we are up and running.” He smiled. “OK?” He turned back to join his colleagues, who were listening to Lucy.

“And he always used to say, ‘Remember the golden rule of chemistry, Lucy,’”a slight, graying woman with glasses on a chain around her neck was saying:‘“Don’t lick the spoon!”’

Everyone laughed—though no doubt they’d heard the story countless times before.

Lucy looked around the control room. “This has changed so much. I really used to love coming here….”

Itch stood next to the beam controller operator and wondered if he could make it work. He glanced at Chloe and Jack; they looked pale and exhausted. The technicians were still chatting with Lucy:

“So when do we get to see your dad, Lucy? How is he anyway?”

Itch saw her swallow and look down. As before, gasps and shocked expressions greeted the news of Cake’s death.

Jack, turning around to look for Itch, mouthed, “Go now.”

As the control room listened to Lucy’s account of her father’s death, Itch realized that she was telling—and considerably elaborating—the story for a reason. All the staff members were distracted by it. Jack was right: now was the time.

He took his backpack from Jack, and picked up the duffle bag. The handles strained with the weight, but Itch was careful not to let the rocks rattle around. Dr. Alexander had shut them in their lead-lined Styrofoam box. They had been submerged underwater, blasted by fire; now they had one last journey to make.

Every one of his footsteps along the high metal walkway sounded to Itch like the banging of a gong. He was going as fast and as quietly as he could but was sure he was making too much noise. He looked down at the shiny beam tunnel. Signs of the maintenance crew were everywhere: replacement panels and pipes lay on the floor, ready to be fitted. Where the walkway turned left, Itch went down the steps to the pod.

As he stood in front of it, peering through the thick glass at the empty plate where the 126 needed to go, he realized his mistake. He banged his head against the pod in frustration. OK, clever guy with a new bone marrow—how are you going to get the rocks out of the box and into the pod? Smart move. He looked around but saw nothing that he could use to mask the radiation. He needed gloves, tongs, and a radiation suit. He had nothing.

He checked his backpack: there were a few cloths he had used to wrap things in, but that was it. There was no more time to spend being careful. Flowerdew was surely on his way—and who knew how long Lucy’s distraction would last? He pulled open the guide tube and knelt down in front of the duffle bag. He wrenched it open and lifted out the large radiation box. When Dr. Alexander had first shown it to him, it had been white and pristine; now it was dirty gray, and covered in dents.

It had four clasps, all rusted solid. Itch stood up and kicked at the fastenings; they came loose immediately and popped up when he flicked the clasps with his thumb and forefinger. His hands started to shake as he mimed the procedure of lifting the rocks out of the box and dropping them into the pod’s guide tube. Like a rugby player picturing the route his conversion kick will have to take, Itch imagined lifting and letting go.

How long do I have? Twenty seconds? Thirty? How much radiation can I cope with? In his weakened condition, presumably the answer was none at all.

But it was too late to change the plan; it was now or never. It was Itch or no one.

He lifted the lid.

For a moment—one heart-stopping moment—Itch could see only seven rocks. The thought that they might not all be there should have occurred to him; Flowerdew had had the rocks long enough to swap or change them if he had wanted to. But as he shook the box, all eight rearranged themselves. Charcoal-black, different sizes, jagged-edged.

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight.

Itch breathed in again, and a stewed, steamy smell came from the box. As he moved his hand closer, he sensed the heat generated by the unremarkable-looking rocks. A moment’s hesitation and he had the largest one in his good hand. Its weight didn’t surprise him—he had been lugging the box around long enough; but it seemed extraordinary that one individual rock the size of a potato could be so heavy. Itch stood and dropped it into the waiting tube. As it rattled against the steel, he swung around to get another. The next one was egg-size and smoother than the first, silver flecks in the 126 catching the fierce neon lighting as he dropped it in again.

Must be quicker. This is your body you’re messing up.

He stooped, picked up and dropped, picked up and dropped, picked up and dropped. Each rock was in his hand for no more than two or three seconds. Three left, and the guide tube was filling up. With each passing second Itch imagined the radiation cutting through him, seeking out his new bone marrow and taking it down. He picked up the last three rocks together and dropped them into the tube; he had to rearrange them with his hand to make them all fit. With all eight secured, he rammed the tube shut.

Allowing himself one deep breath, Itch stared through the glass at the front of the pod. The tube had emerged alongside the small crane, and Itch shoved his hands into the manipulator sockets, as Tom Oakes had shown him. They found the control handles, but his damaged right hand throbbed, and he wondered if he would be able to flex his taped fingers well enough.

Spin and twist. That’s what Oakes had said. Itch jabbed with his left hand and the crane swung wildly. Pulling with the right made the crane dive, the claws opening automatically. He felt a trigger on both handles; pulling them made the claws close, pulling again made them open. After a couple of trial runs, Itch thought he had enough control to start the transfer.

He swung the crane over the drawer and swooped. After one aborted attempt, he successfully picked up the first rock, swung it over to the metal plate and set it down in the middle. His hands were clammy, his face dripping with sweat, but he needed these rocks in position now. He had to speed up. He swung the crane again and again, each time finding a rock and swinging it into position. He was building a small, if uneven, pyramid, just as his father did with barbecue charcoal. He had four at the base, two on top, and was twisting his right hand, picking up the seventh, when his broken finger caught on the control handle. As he flinched, the crane dipped down and hit the pile. The 126 in its claws slipped and fell. Horrified, Itch watched as the small mound collapsed, the more spherical rocks rolling off the plate and down the beam tunnel, out of sight.

Itch stood and stared through the glass. Four rocks were visible, three had disappeared, and one was still in the tube. If the beam was fired now, would he destroy the 126 with only half of it on the target plate? He had no way of knowing for certain, but he suspected that the answer was no.

He leaned his head against the glass. This feels like failure. I could try to fire the beam, but if it misses the rocks, is it worth the risk? Itch tried using the manipulator again, but the crane couldn’t access the rocks that had rolled away. There must be a way of reaching them.

He ducked slightly and peered into the tunnel. He thought there was slightly more light there than before, so he walked around the pod and followed the tunnel that carried the proton beam for eighty feet. He ran his fingers along the steel as he walked; it felt cool. He came to some gleaming pipes arranged on the ground—ready, he assumed, for inserting into the tube. He had seen these from the walkway but hadn’t worked out what they were.

Of course, there’s another way in! That’s what the maintenance teams use!

He stared up at the tunnel. There was a panel in front of him that was due to receive the new piping; now that he was up close, he saw that it was stenciled with beam threshold adjustment. He pushed against it and it swung in on four hinges.

I’m in.

Itch had dropped the backpack, and had gotten one knee and two hands into the opening when he smelled the garlic. Putrid, rotting garlic—and it was coming from inside the tunnel. Scarcely able to believe his senses, he hauled himself up and peered inside. Looking right, the tunnel darkened and snaked away to the left. Looking along it, Itch saw nothing at all. Blackness.

But he heard plenty.

He heard the sound of a man forcing himself through a steel tube.

The beam tunnel may have been four feet or so in diameter, but its walls were thick, and there wasn’t much room inside. As his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, Itch could make out the slowly disappearing feet of Dr. Nathaniel Flowerdew. Propelling himself with elbows and knees, he had pushed himself along the tunnel and was now only a few feet from the pod. Itch could hear his labored breath and the occasional yelp of pain as he slithered toward the 126. Itch was scared, nauseated, and furious all at the same time. And now he couldn’t help himself.

“You’re like a slug leaving a trail of slime,” Itch blurted out, his voice deadened by the closeness of the tunnel walls, “but you leave a trail of stench. Everywhere you go.”

Flowerdew jumped, banging his head on the roof of the tunnel. Now in the slightly expanded space of the pod, he roared with anger and twisted his head around to try to see Itch, but the tunnel seemed empty.

Itch had dropped back out and run back to the pod. Looking through its glass screen, he stared in astonishment and revulsion at what he saw. Flowerdew’s face was lit by the ferocious neon of the lab, and the true extent of his injuries was apparent.

His face was blistered, some of it black, some lobster-red, oozing with fluid that ran down his face like sweat. The skin over his right cheek had started to fold and peel away, leaving a loose flap of pink skin. Flowerdew moved around, picking up the rocks with his bandaged hands and scooping them, one at a time, into a long black canister. He didn’t seem concerned by the radiation hit he must be taking. Catching sight of Itch, he yelled again, but no sound penetrated the thick steel and glass that surrounded him.

What if I could turn the beam on now? What does it do to people? Itch had no idea, and as he had no access to the beam, it wasn’t a choice he had to make. But Flowerdew had sought the rocks of 126 for the third time and now he had them in his canister. If Itch didn’t do something immediately, they would be gone again, possibly for the last time.

Running back to the opened hatch, he found a short length of metal pipe and rammed it into one of his pockets, then climbed back into the tunnel. Flat on his stomach, he pulled and pushed his way along the tube. It wasn’t easy; as soon as he tried to get a grip on the walls, his spine cracked against the roof. Slowly, pushing his backpack along in front of him, he closed in on Flowerdew. He had no idea what he was going to do when he caught up with him, but he had to stop him.

Sixty feet away, Flowerdew was prying the last rock out of the guide tube.

“Time to give up, Flowerdew!” shouted Itch. “The rocks aren’t yours. Put them back. Go and get some medical help; your face is a mess. And did anyone tell you that you stink?”

The last rock rolled into Flowerdew’s canister and he turned slowly, filling the tunnel. What light there had been from the pod disappeared. Now the only illumination came from the hatch door behind Itch, and he was blocking most of that.

“That’s Dr. Flowerdew! Dr. Flowerdew! You never got that, Lofte, did you? Always the cocky know-it-all with the idiot sister and cousin.”

Itch heard the clang of metal on metal as Flowerdew felt his way along the tunnel with, he assumed, the canister in one hand. The smell of garlic was getting stronger.

“You’re a criminal, Lofte. A thief, a poisoner, an arsonist—you tried to kill me back at the well. You deserve a long stretch in prison.”

“You killed Shivvi and were going to throw her down the well!” shouted Itch. “On top of Jack! You’re a monster, Flowerdew…. I know what you did in Nigeria. All those people died because of you; you should be the one in jail!”

“Losing your cousin down the well would have been the best thing for her, Lofte. That’s how we got rid of our garbage in Lagos, you know.” Flowerdew was breathing heavily, and Itch knew he couldn’t be far away; the clanking and the garlic stench were both getting stronger. “You find something useless, you get rid of it.”

Itch was shaking with anger. The pain and anguish of the last six months were boiling up inside him. The kidnapping, the radiation, the bone marrow transplant, the beachfront attack, the cesium—all of them were Flowerdew’s fault. He crawled along faster, grazing his elbows and knees. He was about to launch himself at Flowerdew when he was struck, hard. A flash of metal—the canister, he realized—and he was hit again—heavy blows to his forehead. He tried to back away, but a third blow hit him above his right eye, followed by a fourth. He felt blood start to run down his face, and lights started to pop in front of his eyes.

“Not so pretty now, Lofte,” cried Flowerdew, breathing heavily, “and I haven’t even started yet. When I find your cousin—”

Itch’s vision cleared and, leaving the backpack, he launched himself at the shape in front of him. He pushed with his feet, bounced off the tunnel roof, and his head cracked against Flowerdew’s. The sound of skull on skull was shockingly loud, and they both fell back, stunned.

Itch was still trying to clear his vision when a bright light shone in his eyes. Flowerdew had a small flashlight between his teeth, and before Itch could react, Flowerdew reached out with a bandaged hand and grabbed him by the hair.

“This is what I have been dreaming of doing,” he said through gritted teeth, “what I should have done a long time ago. I had a chance back at the academy, but this time it’s for real.” With his fingers tightly wound in Itch’s hair, he slammed Itch’s face into the tunnel wall. Itch heard the crack of his nose and the clang of steel as pain flooded his head. Flowerdew flung him left, then right, each time smashing his head against the walls.

Itch blacked out before Flowerdew’s fingers had let go of his hair.

When he came to, he heard Flowerdew say, “That was fun,” and felt himself being hauled, inch by inch, back toward the pod.

As the light grew stronger, Flowerdew dropped the flashlight. “You’re in bad shape, Lofte. Such a shame.”

As he was pulled and jolted down the tunnel, Itch opened his eyes. He gasped in pain as his split ear rubbed along the side of the tunnel. He could tell his face was a mass of blood, and when he tasted it flowing into his mouth, he coughed and spat it out.

“Welcome back, Lofte,” said Flowerdew. “This will be so much more fun if you’re awake.” He carried on crawling backward and dragging Itch with him. “The proton beam, as you appear to know, will break things down. If it’s a metal like tungsten, it’ll work on that. If it’s a person like—oh, I don’t know … you, maybe—it’ll work on that too. When the particles hit, they’ll cause a complete breakdown of your central nervous system. Instantly. I don’t know if it’s painful, as no one has survived to tell the tale. Probably not, unfortunately.”

“You’ll never get the beam to work.” Itch was coughing and spitting again.

“Oh, I think I will. Don’t you worry about that,” said Flowerdew.

They had reached the pod. At least, Itch thought, the pain was waking him up. He realized that Flowerdew was planning to leave him here, then turn on the beam. He had at last learned something from his old science teacher—the neutron beam in this tunnel would kill you if you were in the way. He had to get out.

Flowerdew was still holding Itch by his collar. Itch was face down, his right hand resting on his back, his left hand trying to ease his passage toward the pod. His arm rubbed against his jacket pocket, and he felt the hard steel of the pipe he had picked up; the fingers of his left hand closed around it.

“You’re going to have to stay here, Lofte.” Flowerdew was breathing, and now speaking, through gritted teeth. The stink of the tellurium garlic was stronger than ever. “I’m glad you woke up so I could tell you what I was doing. I’m going to destroy your central nervous system, and then, when you’re dead, I’m going to sell the rocks. I’ve tried to do this before, but you got in the way. That won’t happen again.”

To his surprise, Itch started to laugh. “But I have got in the way. I am in the way. You can’t get past me. This tunnel is too small. You’re trapped.”

“But that, dear Itchingham, depends on whether you’re conscious or not, doesn’t it? I’m sure you’ll flatten out if I hit you hard enough.”

Itch felt Flowerdew move and heard the rocks rattle around in the canister. His “club” was ready again. Itch realized he was going to have to do something now—before Flowerdew did. Pulling the steel tube out of his pocket, he rammed it into the first part of Flowerdew he could find. He heard the soft squelch as the tube skewered Flowerdew’s inflamed ear—and then a howl of pain.

Flowerdew swung wildly with the canister, barely missing Itch’s head and hitting the steel wall. A sound like a vibrating gong filled the tunnel, and somewhere Itch registered that it was odd no one had come to check what was going on. Flowerdew missed again. He was flailing blindly now, and Itch smashed the pipe down onto one of his damaged hands. Flowerdew dropped the canister and, in one movement, Itch caught it and rammed it into Flowerdew’s forehead. His head bounced against the wall and he lay still, out cold.

His pulse racing and his whole body trembling, Itch grabbed the canister and put Flowerdew’s flashlight in his mouth, nearly gagging on the saliva that was still on the ribbed handle. He could see his old teacher’s slumped form against the pod glass, blood and body fluids smeared in an arc where he had collapsed. But he was still breathing, and Itch knew the man might not be out for long. Itch had the rocks, but Flowerdew had fallen precisely where the 126 needed to be placed. He couldn’t destroy them without destroying the man too.

“I want you in prison, not dead,” he murmured.

Itch banged the wall of the tunnel in frustration, then tried to move Flowerdew. He tugged at his jacket, then pulled at his arm, but soon realized that he couldn’t shift him. He was wedged there, and Itch’s strength was spent. He paused to get his breath back, and heard the drip drip of his blood hitting the steel floor.

“I need help.”

Retreating back along the tunnel, Itch put the canister in his backpack and opened the hatch. The light outside was blinding, and he waited a few seconds before jumping to the ground. As he landed, the jolt reverberated through his smashed nose, broken finger, and every cut and bruise he had just received from Flowerdew. He gently dabbed his face with his sleeve; the fabric came away soaked in blood. Itch took a deep breath and hobbled away toward the control room.